Sheryl
by I'm Nova
Summary: For Let's Write Sherlock's current challenge section gender change. Sheryl (fem!Sherlock) is in love with her flatmate. Her very gay flatmate. Not that it'll stop her. Rated for Sheryl's wishes rather than actual happenings. Now sex scene added. Hopefully I've not botched it all
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own, you don't sue. Tumblr suggested the idea of gay John being flatmate to Fem!Sherlock. If it started from you, drop me a line and I'll happily credit you. _

Sheryl

It's an experiment. It's an experiment. It's _just_ an experiment. No harm done if it fails. John might huff about being used as unwitting guinea pig – _again_ – but nothing will change between them. Now, if only Sheryl could convince herself of it, perhaps her stomach would settle. She's not giving herself away, is she? John is a bit of an idiot, and he believes her far too much. He'll believe her again. She's just trying to see if she can pass for male. If someone who knows her so well is fooled, she can go undercover as a man anytime. If only things were so simple.

They should be that simple, because she's married to her work. She has no time for distractions, the empty complexity of courtship rituals, or messy, confounding _feelings_. She can flirt – she will do so if the investigation requires it – but she won't let silly things like relationships disrupt her life. The gay flatmate looked like a blessing. John's protective streak, his medical prowess, his urge to just _care –_ even for an impossible individual like her… She gets all that without having to pay for it with her body. John gets annoyed by everyone's assumption that they're together (others expect her to be doing at least something right to have him stick around), perhaps because of the mentality underneath it, perhaps because it diminishes his chances to pull cute boys once they've seen her with him. He states his sexual orientation loudly, exasperated, each time someone implies something about them.

John is a blessing, until he becomes a problem because he's too good, damnit. He's brave and funny and gentle and aesthetically pleasing and he accepts Sheryl and he tells her off when needed but never ever saying, "you disgusting freak!" or even implying it. Sheryl doesn't deserve him – oh no, she doesn't even deserve to be in the same room with John Watson – but she might be falling a bit - a lot – fine, she's fallen from heaven to the deepest pit of hell for her flatmate and isn't that the perfect recipe for disaster?

She should just give up, but tonight John Watson is on the pull and if she can find him drunk enough maybe he'll pull her. If she can trick his subconscious, she might have a quick, dirty something with him to masturbate to for years to come. It's selfish. It's manipulative. Just like her.

She binds her chest, changes her usual style a bit and thanks a God she doesn't believe in for her rather androgynous looks to begin with. Years of smoking ensure that her voice is far from shrill. And yes, she can pass for male because once inside the gay bar John favours she has to fend off suitors with a stick almost literally. Hopefully John hasn't already found someone and left with them, but she gave him a bit of time to get properly tipsy before making her appearance. Where is he?...Oh, there. She flaunts herself and sure enough, he's there with a cheeky pick up line. She can't say yes fast enough.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Sher...lock." At least half of that is right, and if she gets to make him scream that in orgasm she'll keep half the audio file as a treasure.

She'd happily suck him off in an alley, but he's already saying, "Your place or mine?"

"Yours." Obviously. Is John drunk enough not to notice the truth about her if she angles herself just so? Will he maybe take her from behind, blinded by alcohol and lust, uncaring, and let her masturbate furiously while he's at it? That's too good to hope for, isn't it?

It is. Back in the flat, after a little heated fumbling, it becomes quite glaring not just what Sheryl is, but _who _she is. No cover of dark or confusing, stroboscopic lights here, and he's not drunk enough to lose every last brain cell. She should have never agreed to follow him, but she couldn't refuse him anything earlier.

John stops abruptly. "What the fuck, Sheryl?" he blurts out.

_Experiment. Just say, "Experiment," damn! _But her throat doesn't work, words stuck to her epiglottis. The silence stretches ominously.

"Was it all a joke at my expense?"

She shakes her head. No.

She expects him to guess her excuse next, but instead he asks, "If I were well and truly wasted, would you have gone trough with it? If I didn't look further than your ass?"

She nods. Yes. Not good maybe, consent issues raised with people drunk enough not to know what they're fucking, but she owes the truth to him.

"Do you _want_ to have sex with me?" he queries, serious, his voice holding a no-nonsense tone.

She blushes, shrugs, and finally finds words. His words. "You're gay."

"_Answer,_ Sheryl." It's the captain's voice, and Sheryl will never be capable to resist it.

"I wouldn't have entered that place if I didn't want it," she confesses. Let him mock her. Scold her. Whatever.

"You're in luck then, because I find my sexual orientation to be quite oriental these days."

"Uh?" was the most intelligent reaction she could muster. Horrible, insensate puns? _What the hell, John? _

"You know the yin and yang symbol, right? No matter how much you think you're firmly on one side, there's always a speck of the opposite inside. And I'm finding out that I have one single instance of possible heterosexuality, and there's your name written across it," he boldly admits.

Later, she will ask why he hadn't said a word, and discover that he wasn't going to put pressure on her, ma_k_e things awkward, possibly ruin their friendship. That he didn't believe she'd be interested. That he thought he wasn't good enough for her. (_Ridiculous; it's obviously the opposite. He'll realize that sooner or later._) Later still, he'll admit to have pulled her male impersonation in order to pretend it was her, so things couldn't have been better. Not now, though.

Now, she groans, "Prove it. Make love to me." (Awful slip of tongue. It's just a synonym for what they're discussing, yes, but she shouldn't utter the l- word. It's too reckless. Asking – implying – more than she can ever receive. Attraction is already more than she deserves.)

John doesn't scold her for it, strangely. He smirks, and announces, "That, Miss Holmes, can definitely be arranged."

_P.S. If you want to see actual sex let me know. I might be persuaded._


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Roses are red. Violets are blue, I do not own, You do not sue._

_A.N. By popular demand, here is the smut ending. A few things I feel the need to point out: sex is not really my area; this is the second time in my life that I write smut; the first I write het. As such, I might even have written something entirely off putting, though I hope not. I don't usually beg for reviews, but let me know how I did, and if I should refrain from ever writing more smut, pretty please? _

"Let's do this properly, then. Bed," John declares.

She nods and marches to her room. It's closer. She's busy hurriedly undressing, when his hands still hers.

"It's not a race, Sheryl. Let me enjoy this, mmh?" he murmurs. It might be because it's a necessity in gay sex, but John quite enjoys foreplay. He was looking forward to pay attention to every new inch of skin revealed, and he's suddenly offered the equivalent of an all-you-can-eat buffet. He's not complaining, (he's not mad) just...a bit overwhelmed by all the beauty suddenly before him. Well versed in Sheryl-speak, he reads correctly an hesitant look. "I won't change my mind, promise," he reassures.

She relaxes and lets John take charge. Anything he wants. As long as that is – God, _finally –_ her. She's already naked from the waist up (she can be remarkably efficient), and he undoes the uncomfortable chest binding for her before taking a step back and just – looking. What if he doesn't like it? Still, she refuses to fidget.

"Magnificent," he breathes reverently.

She shouldn't have worried. The usual elation at John's praise warms her, this time tenfold as usual. She wonders if she's blushing with it. That would be acceptable anyway, wouldn't it?

"So many choices. What to do, mmh?" he ponders.

She has no words to answer him, too jittery with anticipation.

He starts by kissing behind her ear, earning a shiver. Then little kisses along her jaws, and then one on her neck. She whines, protesting wordlessly, and he comes back to kiss her properly. On the mouth, exploring it with teasing little licks and dancing with her tongue until they're both completely breathless. Then he resumes paying attention to her voluptuous neck, lciking his way down to the clavicle, his hands busy caressing her back.

She tugs at his clothes because the disparity isn't fair, dammit! He appears to agree, because after blowing against a wet patch of skin, making her shiver again, he assists her in getting him equally half-naked. She doesn't comment on him, too fascinated (John's not just a man – he's a _world_) to remember to actually use words of praise. Instead, she lets her hands run all over him, wishing to commit every last detail of his dear, dear body to memory.

Sadly, she keeps getting distracted during the saving process by his kisses and caresses, first feather light, then more satisfying. He's teasing her, not getting to the point – not even to her chest, and they'll never actually have sex if this goes on – and she retaliates by nibbling on him, here and there, staying just this side of marking him like she'd love to (but maybe he wouldn't like that), or raking her nails against his skin when he's, in her opinion, dillydallying.

At last, he's finally on her chest, caressing first, then sucking on one nipple while toying with the other, and she groans hoarsely. Then he switches sides, and when he stops, before he can toy with her any longer, she pulls him to her for another deep, incandescent kiss. Then she queries, "Are we going to lose our pants anytime this year, or do you want to wait until you rip through them?" with a pointed, sensuous rolling of her hips against his. She's not begging for it (she hopes), but so help her, she'll start to soon if he doesn't make good on his promise.

At her actions, he groans deeply, but then has the gall to chuckle lightly. Thankfully, he concedes. "As you wish." John liberates her of her clothing, all in a swift move, feeling her impatience, before doing the same to himself. Then he scoots down, at the end of her impossibly long legs, and _caresses her calves. _

Scared that he'll start teasing – again – this time making his way up, and aware that she might scream if this happens, she glowers at him and orders pithily, "Up here, John."

He laughs again, in utter happiness, and this time she laughs with him. He still stalls, kissing both her inner thighs once, playful, and she whines. She can't help it. Either he does something or she'll go mad with want. She'll lose her mind, Scotland Yard will lose their consultant and it'll be all John's fault.

Then – _finally –_ he's really making love to her. With all the build-up to it, she expected the act to be somewhat frantic. Instead the rhythm he sets up is slow and steady, and so utterly tender that she's in serious danger of being completely overwhelmed by all the feelings she usually is so careful to confine as best she can. Especially when she tries to goad him into hurrying, and he gently chides, "No rushing yet. Making love here, remember?"

"John." It's a plea, a moan, a prayer, _don't say it – I can't cope –_ and _more_ and _**love me **_all packed together. "John John John John."

"Sher," he echoes throatily, voice broken with affection and not a little disbelief at a dream really come true.

After a while, he steadily picks up the pace. She loses the ability to form words – even his utterly loved name – and is left to broken noises and moans. Her orgasm, when it comes, is explosive – _otherworldly –_ and makes him follow. They scream each other's name.

After, she surprises them both by cuddling him, holding onto him for dear life. He does not protest, but smiles beatifically. Oxytocin is really the most wonderful thing.

"I might get addicted to this," she confesses, daring. (What if it was a one-off? Oh please don't let it be.)

"I'd love if you did," he replies, depositing one affectionate kiss on her temple. None of them has still said, "I love you," as such, but they'll work on that.


End file.
